“I don’t know, I’m sure. You’d better sit down, my boy, and wait for him,” advised Adoniram kindly. “He’s sure to turn up here, first or last.”
So Brandon sat down, striving to stifle his impatience. He had not waited ten minutes, however, when the door of the outer office was opened, and somebody entered.
“Here he is now,” exclaimed the youth, thinking he heard Caleb’s voice.
He threw open the door between the two offices, gave one glance into the apartment beyond, and staggered to the nearest chair in utter amazement.
“Great Peter! it’s Uncle Arad!” he gasped, in answer to Adoniram’s questioning exclamation, and the next instant Uncle Arad himself appeared at the open portal of the private office.
“Thar ye air, ye young reskil!” exclaimed the old man, shaking his bony forefinger at the youth.
Behind him was another man—a clean shaven, foxy looking fellow, who, when old Arad had pointed the boy out, stepped quickly into the room.
“Well, well!” exclaimed Brandon, recovering in part from his surprise. “Who’d have thought of seeing you here, Uncle Arad!”
“Not yeou, I warrant!” cackled the old man shrilly. “I s’pose ye thought ye c’d git off scott free with yer ill gotten gains, didn’t ye?”
“What?”